Tag: romance

Bed

I lift the covers and slide back into bed.
It still smells of you. I imagine that it’s still warm with you.
I turn off the light, letting my eyes adjust to the dark.
The room hasn’t changed much. A few familiar things gone, a few new things on the dresser and nightstand.
People change. Even you.
That’s when I hear your key in the lock downstairs.
I get out of bed, pull on my clothes, and crawl back out the window.
As I watch you sleep, I wonder if you can feel my warmth, smell my skin.
Sleep well.

Rehab

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Things got crazy at the party. Talia overdosed on longevity drugs and went into a coma.
We handed her off to the Sleeping Beauty Ward. They gave us an estimate of 80 years before she’d come out of it.
Eighty years?
They handed me the bill for her babysitting, and I scraped up most of it.
A kidney and some skin for burn grafts covered the rest.
That was 79 years ago. Vital signs say she’ll wake up soon.
Never did find anyone else, too old for her now.
I wrote one last note and walked to the termination center.

The Kiss

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They were the perfect couple, I swear they were.
They’ll be together until the end of their days, I had thought.
He said “I love you” to another woman, and that earned him a knife in his throat.
She was going to cut out his eyes when the bartender hit her with the bottle.
Now he doesn’t say anything to anyone, just whispers to himself every now and then.
And she just sits by the window, staring at things nobody else can see.
Wrecked and lost, no longer perfect, but they’ll still be together until they end of their days.

Typing

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I’m tired, and I’m out of ideas for stories.
So, I head to the writer’s group and sit at a typewriter.
Other writers are there, typing away.
The sound of the typewriters, humming and clacking, makes me relax, and I feel a little drowsy.
So I fold my arms on the desk and rest my head for a bit.
Sleep takes me, and I dream of The Woman With Typewriter Keys For Eyes.
I pull the ribbons from her hair, my hands come away stained with ink.
And…
I wake up, and my tongue is caught in the typewriter’s strikers.

Home

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Lincoln said that it is not the years in your life, but the life in your years.
Drifting between the stars for centuries, solar sails and cargo pods.
In the control center, two brains wrapped and connected with millions of miles of nanocircuitry.
Ours. Together.
So many years ago, frail and weak from disease, we volunteered.
We had nothing to lose but each other, and this way, we could have more time.
It has been over eight years since she last told me that she loves me.
She is gone.
I change course, and we sail into a star.
Home.

April showers

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“April showers bring May flowers, and May flowers bring pilgrims” says the sampler on my wall.
As I look through this telescope into April’s bathroom, yeah, now you know why I named my cock “Mayflower.”
It used to be named “Norman Goldberg.”
I’m not sure why I named it that.
I don’t know anyone named Norman Goldberg, but a long time ago when I was looking at it, the name just jumped into my head.
I’m glad I changed its name. Would have been embarrassing to meet Norman in the street and say “Hey, that’s what I named my cock!”

Birthday Gift

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I had no idea what to get Molly for her birthday.
She’s allergic to flowers and she hates chocolate.
I wandered around the gift shop until I came to the alligator isle.
Stacked up on the shelves were crocodiles of various sizes and colors.
I checked their price tags. Sure enough, they were marked as alligators.
Which are much less expensive that crocodiles.
Recognizing a bargain when I see one is my particular field of genius, so I bought out the lot.
So that’s what I got Molly for her birthday.
Please, quit screaming, and help me wrap them up.

The Girl Who Sneezed Dimes

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I once knew a girl who sneezed dimes.
Yeah, she could pay her own way when we went out to dinner, but have you ever eaten with someone who’s got a nasty cold?
Not all that appetizing.
The sex was okay, but I caught a snot-covered dime in the mouth more than once.
And she didn’t like being taken from behind.
It just wasn’t working out.
Over time, she’d saved up enough to pay for art school.
She packed her things, called a cab, and dumped a handful of dimes in the driver’s hands.
At least she’d washed them first.

Orangeness

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I woke up early on Sunday.
Jenny’s still asleep.
I should surprise her.
Jenny likes the pumpkin spice pudding. So I dumped the powder into a plastic container, added a cup of milk, and closed the lid.
After a minute of shaking, the orange goo was all over the kitchen.
Jenny had poked holes in the lid for her frog hunting. Can’t keep them in a sealed plastic container without air holes, you know.
She woke up, looked around the kitchen, and said if I wanted to surprise her, I should do a halfway decent job of cleaning the kitchen.

Smacked in the face with a rollerskate

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I’ve never seen Lisa rollerskate.
She just carries that pair around to smack people in the face with.
That’s why I wear a football helmet with the full facemask.
She can slap me in the face all she wants with those rollerskates. It won’t make a lick of difference.
Other people, you can tell she’s whacked them. A bloody lip, a black eye, or a knocked-out tooth.
But me? My face is unblemished and injury-free.
That’s when she tried something new.
“Kiss me,” she said. And she pulled me real close.
So, I took off the helmet and… WHACK!
Bitch.